Addict
by RunningInAir
Summary: One-shot. DracoxTheo. They've been shagging for some time now, but Draco can't seem to get enough of Theo. Why? How is it that one of his oldest friends has become so much...more? Second-person perspective from Draco's POV.


He moves around the room with a grace that you've never seen in any other man. You try not to watch him, but the planes of his back and the way the muscles in his shoulders stretch beneath the smooth skin draw your eyes, and you are powerless to stop it. His hands are steady as he pulls his boxers up his legs, yet your hands are still trembling - you are always left trembling after he touches you, like he soaks up your strength through his fingertips.

You watch him, the way his fingers lightly grip his wand as he conjures two glasses, the deft way he pops the cork out of the bottle; but you keep your own hands in your lap, fingers interlaced, so he won't see them shaking. It's a foolish endeavor, because Theo sees everything. The brown eyes that look at you with lust as you undress before him are the same eyes that quietly observed every move every student ever made in Hogwarts. Watching, processing, remembering. All those years, and you never once realized just how intelligent he was. How could you have missed it?

Too self-centered, that's what you are – or were. Now, you can't seem to think about anything but him. The way his lips lift up on one side when you let out that first shaky breath, when he knows just how aroused you are before he's even touched you. The way his fingers brush over the veins in your neck, feeling the way your pulse jumps wildly for him. That confidence in his bearing when he commands you towards him with just the crook of a finger, knowing that you will do whatever he wants. And he's right; he's always right.

Sometimes, once you're spent and trembling, he tells you things, little things. Thoughts he has that don't seem important to him, but are to your ears what summer rains are to the trees - you drink up every word he says. Theo never used to be so important to you, so vital. In days long past, you ignored him, because he never cared to be a part of your group. His aloofness pissed you off. Maybe that's why you watch him so thoroughly now. That same detachment no longer irritates you – it drives you mad. You want to make him feel as on-the-edge as you feel. You want to see his stoicism falter, if only the slightest bit, to prove that he is real and not just some illusion you've dreamt up to ease the ache of wounds from a lifetime of hate.

And though they are rare, there are times when that mask he wears so perfectly slips – just the slightest bit. When he whispers your name as he fills you, when his breath hitches in his chest as your lips press against the side of his throat, or when he grasps your hair tightly in his fist and completely loses himself in you. Those are the moments that you crave, because those are the moments when you see the cracks in his armor.

He turns toward you, a glass in each hand filled with red wine, the dark hair on his head still mussed, and a sated glint in his otherwise indecipherable gaze. He looks you up and down, and though your body is still aching, a fire is instantly lit in your veins, and you just know that damned flush of color is creeping up your cheeks – it always does; and Theo glides his thumb along the heated skin every time, a knowing smile on his face. He seems to like it when you blush.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, really. You weren't supposed to pursue his company so often. It should have been a one-time deal. You _meant_ for it to be just the one time, to play the game with him and come out on top, to prove to yourself – because he didn't care – that you were better than he was. As if that even mattered. As if you actually _were_.

But that had never happened. All the bravado, all the talk, and you caved beneath him. You are putty in his hands, offering yourself to him time and time again without even being prompted. Begging for it, even. Because when he grasps your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks, and demands you say please before he fucks you, you say it every time. You say it over and over, breathlessly, shamelessly. And he lets you see what he could have had you doing all of these years, shows you the power he could have held over you but didn't, simply because he couldn't have been bothered to. That knowledge simmers in your brain day-in and day-out, causes you to seek him out for just one more taste. Always just one more taste. But it's never enough.

You've become an addict for Theodore Nott.

And sometimes you worry that one day he'll cut you off, and you'll be left to suffer withdrawals. Your trembling will no longer be because he has made you come harder than you ever have in your life, or because the simple nearness of his body to yours sends your heart-rate tripping into double-time, or even because you might be feeling things for him you haven't felt for anyone in…well, your entire life. If he leaves, you will shake with need, unmet desire, because you know – deep down – that no one will ever do for you what Theo does.

He hands you the wine, and your fingers briefly touch as the glass exchanges hands. How is it that such a simple contact can make your heart flutter in your chest, wings batting against your ribs frantically, like it will burst free from its cage at any moment? You've fought this feeling for so long, thinking that surely it's just infatuation – a crush born of him being the first guy to ever fuck you, to make you feel so desired, to give you so much pleasure. It's the way he looks at you, like he could devour you completely. It's the way he grabs at your body, as if he will take and take and take until you have nothing left to give.

Does he know that you will willingly give him everything you have?

The wine spills past your lips, rich flavors dancing across your tongue, as he sits on the couch beside you, sipping casually from his own glass. You watch the way his throat moves as he swallows, the act innocent in and of itself, but with the musk and heat still thick in the air, you can't tear your gaze from it – from him.

Always looking. Always craving.

It isn't until he looks at you, too, brown eyes boldly meeting gray, that you fully acknowledge to yourself what you're feeling. What you've _been_ feeling for weeks now. Why your heart won't stop pounding when he's near you. Why his face lingers over-long in your thoughts. Why you always want to touch him, always want to be near him. Why you can't seem to ever get enough of him. Why you'll completely destroy yourself for him.

You're falling in love with Theodore Nott.

You're falling in love with him, and it terrifies you.


End file.
